


Give me arms to pray with (instead of ones that hold too tightly)

by ASheepsLife



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡ °), Bed-sharing, Don't copy to another site, Episode 2x01, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nightmares, Someone Give That Boy A Hug, T-rating for minor descriptions of violence, historical accuracy?, i don't know her, it's mostly Ben angsting, mention of canonical character deaths, seriously he would not stop introspecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASheepsLife/pseuds/ASheepsLife
Summary: After his argument with Caleb, Ben’s thoughts keep circling the events of recent months: The loss of Caleb’s uncle, its effect on Caleb, the very real possibility that any of their ring could be next. They prey on his mind during the officers’ dinner and even hound him in his dreams that night.Luckily, he doesn’t have to deal with them on his own.Set during/after 2x01.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Give me arms to pray with (instead of ones that hold too tightly)

**Author's Note:**

> Arrives in the fandom three years late with a bed-sharing fic (kinda). Oh well; those don’t get old, amirite.
> 
> Pretentious title from Florence and the Machine’s _100 Years_.

***

_“You know these officer types. Always under pressure, shouldering burdens us foot-wobblers don’t know or can’t see.”_

Caleb’s words echo in Ben’s head as he tries to suppress the restlessness making it nigh impossible to maintain a composed demeanour. Normally he'd relish the opportunity to attend an officers' dinner; with that many important heads in a room, the table scraps tend to be educational. But tonight he feels unsettlingly on edge, stretched so taut the smallest provocation might prove to be his breaking point. And provocations there are plenty.

Starting with Bradford across the table (and the bruising Ben feels all over his body from their altercation earlier - not to mention Lee himself beside him), over the precariousness of his reconciliation with Caleb, to the man currently sitting to his immediate right with the unwavering stoicism that is at the root of all of them.

Ben knew that provoking a fight with Bradford was immature and foolish and above all unbecoming of his station. But Washington’s obstinate refusal to take the threat of Lee’s treachery seriously frustrates Ben to no end, and while he still has enough sense of self-preservation to know that attempting to get a rise out of the general would be an exercise in futility at best and one in self-sabotaging his post at worst, he couldn’t help seeking an easier target to vent his frustrations. The safe option was usually Caleb; between the two of them they weren’t soldiers, they were childhood friends who knew the best and the worst of each other, and freely confided in both. But after their exchange about Abe, Ben couldn’t shake the fear that picking a fight with Caleb now would rend something irreparable between them.

_“...the only one I’m risking is me.”_

The words, along with the slightly manic sight of Caleb holding the burning hatchet between them, had uncomfortably reminded Ben that his best friend hasn’t really been himself since they buried his uncle. Every day his behaviour remains subtly but troublingly off is a day that Ben’s worry entrenches itself deeper into his heart; Ben has been trying to tell himself that Caleb’s talk about leaving the army isn’t the cut that will finally bring him down.

The thing is, Ben _understands_. He carries the same guilt for the blood on his hands - even more so, surely. ( _God, Lucas, you didn’t deserve this._ ) But he’s always been the idealist, wanting so badly to change the world, bloodying his knuckles on its recalcitrance. Caleb, he’s always looked out for his friends, his family, for Ben. That’s what got him into this mess. He doesn’t belong in the army, not really. Ben’s loath to admit it, but he could easily picture Caleb as a privateer, giving the Tories hell on his own terms, accountable to none but himself, responsible for none but himself. (And he will never admit to it outside of his own head, but that picture holds its very own, embarrassingly romantic appeal to Ben.)

But Ben can’t leave. His place is here with his dragoons, with Washington, and even though rationally he knows that Caleb would be at least as safe, if not safer, away from the army, Ben cannot bear the thought of not having him close by, of not fighting side by side, of not being able to reassure himself of Caleb’s safety.

The last thing Ben wants is to push Caleb away, more than he already inadvertently has. The wine he had with his dinner burns sour in his stomach when he imagines Caleb becoming the latest victim of his incorrigible habit of pushing those around him to do more, be more, sacrifice more in the name of the cause. All it - all _Ben_ \- ever manages to achieve is get them killed for it. It’s not that he is ungrateful to have been appointed head of intelligence - he _knows_ he can do a lot of important work in his position. Ever more often, however, it doesn’t seem like he’s doing enough. Caleb would accuse him of an obsessive need to control everything - has in the past, in fact - but what truly frustrates Ben is inaction. Being forced to wait on others with no way to _help_ , no way to know if Anna and Woody are even still alive.

And Ben knows that Washington's position doesn't allow him to show the same concern for any individual's fate; still he can't help the surge of anger that flares up every time Washington displays such ruthless disregard for his friends' safety. Part of it stems from the untenable position in which it puts Ben, having to decide between the fate of his friends and that of their country. Equally galling, however, is Washington's lack of trust in Ben to make that decision.

_"Maybe give him some slack."_

It isn’t that Ben doesn’t want to; he can only imagine the terrible weight resting on the general's shoulders, and doesn't envy him one ounce of it. But this, surely, is all the more reason to let others help, to let those in his trust have his back against those who would tear him down.

 _No one can achieve this Herculean task by themselves,_ Ben thinks, eyes on the regal figure of his commander. _And you are but a man._

Realising his mind has drifted, Ben looks away and focuses his attention back on the conversation going on around him - and promptly wishes he hadn't. Lee has apparently decided to read aloud from that damned pamphlet. Ostensibly addressing only his immediate neighbours, his voice is loud enough to carry through the whole room, easily reaching the end of the table where Washington sits. Looking back at his unreadable face, Ben urges him to do something, _anything_ , to not let this slander stand - and he does.

Though what exactly he hopes to achieve by having Lee read that malicious rot out loud, Ben isn’t sure. He makes the mistake of glancing at Bradford, which sets his blood boiling so quickly he briefly entertains the notion of removing that obnoxious smirk from the other man's face in front of Washington, his French guest, and the highest-ranking members of his staff. Gritting his teeth, he reins in his temper and turns to gauge Washington's reaction - which is once again conspicuous by its absence.

While Ben is telling himself that blowing up at his general would be an even more grievous misconduct than brawling with a fellow officer, the new arrival, if somewhat overdramatic, finally voices the thoughts Ben has wished someone would express in Washington’s defence.

The vindication he feels is short-lived, however. A cold twist of shame knots his stomach as Washington becalms the cheers he instigated without so much as a glance in Ben’s direction; Ben has managed to disappoint him yet again.

Feeling like a schoolboy scolded for misbehaving, brushed off without express dismissal, Ben suddenly wishes he were anywhere else but in this room. So when Arnold so obviously looks at the lack of a space for him to sit, Ben gives up his seat all too eagerly. After a few stumbling words that are hardly adequate to convey his admiration for Arnold, he strides from the room without a backward glance.

***

Ben pushes into his tent, not looking forward to trying to sleep in his state of agitation, when the sight that greets him stops him in his tracks. Caleb is lying on his cot, nearly fully clothed and on top of the blanket, fast asleep. His heavy leather coat is draped over the back of Ben’s lone chair and the boots he’s haphazardly discarded on the ground suggest he hasn’t simply nodded off while waiting for Ben. Ben’s heart describes a familiar flip in his chest at the thought of Caleb seeking out his space as a place to rest, and not even the fact that he’s hogging the thin excuse for a pillow can stem the flood of fondness that wells up warm inside Ben.

He doesn’t think twice before stripping out of his own coat, his waistcoat and boots, and digging out the spare blanket usually reserved for colder nights, and he doesn’t think twice before joining Caleb on the cot. When Caleb wants to make a nuisance of himself he sprawls across the entirety of Ben's bed, not leaving any room for him whatsoever. His tucking himself away on his side, with his back against the canvas, is a clear invitation. Even though he thinks it a lost cause, Ben tries to jostle Caleb as little as possible and, impossibly, he doesn’t wake. Ben doesn’t know if he should be more worried that his exhaustion appears to run this deep, or more touched that his trust in Ben seemingly does, too.

The narrow cot is a tight fit for two grown men, which is why, on the occasions they share one, they usually fit themselves chest to back. Even though Ben wouldn't wish the misery of an unforgiving winter in camp on anyone, he secretly, guiltily cherishes those occasions when the cold is severe enough to warrant seeking the extra warmth. If he could get away with it, he would spend every night with Caleb's arm draped over him, his body a line of heat against his back. But he couldn't, so he doesn't. Perhaps this impossible longing plays a part in Ben's lying down to face Caleb now, perhaps he simply cannot bear not seeing him in this moment, alive and well. In any case, he settles down, spare blanket covering both of them, his own face mere inches from Caleb's.

Caleb doesn't stir. Caleb, who's survived the war and the wilds of its grey boundaries by always sleeping with one eye open, even in sleep trusts Ben absolutely. Not that Ben really ever doubted that; it'd take more than an argument to shatter that bond forged over a lifetime. But ever since their raid on Setauket, ever since Lucas died, things haven't been the same. And it felt so good, so _right_ , fighting Bradford and his cronies back to back, together in this as in all things, but it doesn't amend everything that happened, doesn't set right all of Ben's mistakes.

And God knows there have been enough of those.

His dragoons, slaughtered to the last man (young Jeremiah still clutching his slit throat, the blood spilling over his lips as Ben sunk the bayonet into his chest); Newt and his brothers, only trying to survive; his own brother, left to rot in that hellhole of a prison; Caleb’s uncle, shot in front of their very eyes while he watched, powerless.

The echo of that sickening, cold lurch that shot through him as he tried to comprehend what was happening still resurfaces any time he thinks of that day. Any time he looks at Caleb and thinks of what he lost, all because Ben holds the cause above all else, above his friends who are risking everything for it.

He looks at Caleb, that dear, familiar face with the crows’ feet Ben has been there to see develop, around eyes that have danced with lively mischief ever since they were boys, and wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Not that Caleb would want to hear it. He’d only tell Ben to give himself some slack. But how can he? How can he accord himself leniency when he’s perpetually torn between using the unique situation of the Culper ring to advance the war and ensuring its members don’t lose their lives in its service? Noble ideals be damned, if Caleb lost his Ben would never forgive himself. He would bargain with God and the devil himself if it meant sparing Caleb.

The paralysing fear of losing Caleb, only kept at bay by constant action, by never allowing himself enough idleness to contemplate the possibility, threatens to well up and drown him as he lies, mere inches from Caleb, squeezed onto the same small cot. The scant space separating them becomes a gulf threatening to choke the breath in his throat if he doesn’t somehow manage to bridge it.

Ben only has to extend his fingers to reach out and touch the tips gently to the back of Caleb’s hand, loosely curled under his chin. The skin is warm and rough, and Ben has to restrain himself from tightening his grip on Caleb's hand, from clinging to him with all his might as if he could preserve him if he only held on tightly enough.

“Please keep him safe. Whatever you do, please God, only keep him safe.”

The whispered plea falls from his lips before he can stop it, but now that it has, Ben hopes against hope that it might move the God he in his heart of hearts is not sure he believes in any longer.

He doesn't really expect to be able to sleep, but exhaustion must catch up with him as well because the next thing he becomes aware of is a stillness around him far more ominous than camp at night, and the cloying stench of mud churned by blood in the air. His heart quickens at the mounting sense of _wrongness_ , then lurches painfully when he opens his eyes to bright sunlight and finds himself face to face with Jeremiah lying next to him in the mud, slashed neck twisted in order to fix empty, accusing eyes on Ben. He barely manages to refrain from flinching away when he hears Welsh moving through the water towards him. Instead, he takes a firm hold of the bayonet in his hand, concentrating on keeping his breathing calm.

Hold on.

How could he know who is approaching him?

But Ben is out of time to fathom the inconsistency. He needs to act now or meet the same fate as his men. He waits, with straining ears and coiled as a spring, for the pause that signals his assailant leaning over him to correct for the awkward angle in which Ben lies. Then he turns, swinging the bayonet upward with the movement until it finds its target in the man’s gut. He follows it up with a swift stab of his knife to the man’s throat lest he give Ben away by crying out. As his assailant slumps on top of him, guided by Ben to avoid sudden movements that might draw unwanted attention, Ben lifts his eyes and gets a good look at his face.

_No._

Staring back, eyes wide with shock and bright with pain, is Caleb.

Ben can’t breathe. He watches in mute horror as his friend slumps further, born down on the blades still clutched in Ben’s hands. There is a horrible, garbled choking sound as dark blood wells up over Caleb’s lips and spills down his chin, landing hot and slick on Ben’s chest. Through the deafening, dizzying roar in his ears Ben thinks the choking might be his name, but he can’t move, can’t _breathe_ \- 

_Ben!_

\- can only lie, paralysed, as the life is drained, inexorably, from his friend’s eyes, as he feels his own blood rising in his throat to suffocate him until -

“Ben!”

\- his eyes fly open to darkness and Caleb leaning over him. Ben startles violently, one hand flying up to brace against Caleb’s chest as he jams the other elbow against his lumpy mattress, heart racing. He needs to get off his back, needs to get out of this vulnerable position -

"Benny."

One of Caleb's hands reaches for him. He flinches and Caleb drops it. Ben's fighting for breath, can't read Caleb's face, it's too dark, but there's no blood matting his beard, choking his voice. Because they're in Ben's tent. Not that wretched glade. Ben's eyes drop to follow his frantic hand as it moves over Caleb's chest, encountering the coarse fabric of his shirt and the solid, _living_ warmth beneath, and no bayonet draining blood from his side.

Caleb lets him, lying supported on his elbow himself, his concerned gaze heavy as a touch.

_He's all right._

Ben tries to get his rapid breathing under control.

_He's fine. It was a dream._

Underneath his hand, Caleb's heart beats a steady rhythm.

_See, he's not dead_

his breath still won't come right

_yet._

Ben's hand clenches tightly on a fistfull of Caleb's shirt as what little air he’s managed to draw into his lungs leaves him in a strangled gasp. The abating shock leaves Ben jittery in its wake, which is his excuse for letting himself tip forward into Caleb’s chest like his strings have been cut, hiding his face in that reassuring warmth.

What he really wants is to wrap both arms tight around Caleb and never let go. As it is, his conduct is already far too revealing, so he indulges in this moment of selfish weakness mostly in his head. Until, that is, Caleb puts his arm around Ben, laying his hand between Ben’s shoulder blades. The trembling of his body is briefly overtaken by a full-body shudder, which Caleb luckily doesn’t take as a rejection. Instead, he starts smoothing his palm over Ben’s back in small motions and Ben can hardly bear it.

He wants this, so much it leaves him breathless, yet he knows, at the same time, that he is undeserving of it. Undeserving of Caleb's care, of the comfort his arms are offering to the man responsible for his uncle's death.

“I’m sorry about Lucas.”

Caleb’s hand stills at the pained words torn from Ben's throat.

"You know I don't blame you for that," Caleb says eventually, his hand picking its movement back up in a way that feels deliberately reassuring.

"You'd be right to," Ben whispers, unable to bring himself to speak any louder.

"See, I know you army boys are sticklers for details like chain of command, but that ain't my style. I also know of your penchant to martyr yourself for others all noble like; forgive me for not indulging it."

Caleb is astonishingly successful in injecting normalcy into his voice, as if they ordinarily spend their nights with Ben clinging to him like a child to its parent. Ben's breathing is calming with every lungful of Caleb's familiar scent he draws in, but the echo of that visceral terror is still coursing through his veins, and he wants to protest. He's not being noble, he's taking responsibility for his actions, and he's not looking for absolution; he doesn't deserve it. He just needs Caleb to know how bone-deep his remorse runs, how all-consuming it is. He keeps expending every effort he can, but it is never enough. He is never enough.

There's no conceivable way to say any of that. Instead, Ben presses his forehead into Caleb's chest a little harder, as if perhaps that way the tangle of his thoughts can transfer directly through his sternum into his wonderful, beating heart.

"Must've been one hell of a nightmare."

The carefully light tone is the one Caleb uses whenever he wants to give Ben an opening to talk about whatever is bothering him without obliging him to take it, and normally Ben's heart swells each time Caleb displays his particular brand of sensitivity. But in the frighteningly unsettled state in which his dream has left him, everything in Ben rebels against Caleb making light of what he saw there, what he _did_ there. His body betrays his protest through the clenching of his fist in Caleb's shirt and an audible hitch in his breathing.

Caleb's hand stills again.

"Are you all right?"

It's the third time he's asked that question in a span of hours, and though part of Ben still thrills ridiculously at every instance Caleb's care for him evidences itself, what threatens to overwhelm him now is a tide of shame and guilt and a suffocating sense of failure because God knows they have enough to worry about and the last thing Caleb needs is Ben breaking down over his own shortcomings because of a _dream_ -

"Hey."

Ben doesn't know if the shiver he has to suppress stems from the gentleness in Caleb's voice or in his hand that slides up to his nape, underneath his hair, coaxing him back to look at him. Ben means to resist, doesn't trust what might be showing on his face, but he has never been successful when it comes to hiding from Caleb. So he lets his head be guided off of Caleb's chest, keeping his eyes fixed on the hand with which he is still clutching Caleb's shirt.

Caleb waits a little while longer, his thumb running along the skin behind Ben's ear. This time, Ben can't stifle the shiver.

"I told you all that fancy education was going to go to your head. Didn't I always tell ye?"

He had. Their last summer together in Setauket, Caleb had ribbed him endlessly about his upcoming departure for Yale.

"You're already an incurable know-it-all. Lord-a-mercy, but you're going to be insufferable," he'd said, eyes gleaming with pride all the while, before Ben had tackled him into the grass.

"You've always had too many thoughts running around that noggin of yours," he continues, lightly tapping it with his thumb. "Can't possibly be good for ye."

Then, Caleb's hand leaves Ben's neck, and before he can do something ill-advised like miss it, it brushes a strand of hair off his forehead from where it had escaped its queue, and tucks it behind his ear.

Heaven and earth couldn't have stopped Ben's eyes from jumping up to meet Caleb's. Ben cherishes every single touch Caleb bestows on him, keeps a perfect, mortifying catalogue of each one. This one is unprecedented. They are so close that even in the dark Caleb's gaze is warm as it ever is, as is the hand now resting lightly along Ben's jaw. His eyes are brimming with compassion and understanding, like he knows Ben inside and out, is aware of the storm raging inside him, like he can see Ben is a glancing blow away from shattering.

Ben feels fragile, laid bare in all his darkling vulnerability, and he must look it, for Caleb's gaze grows unbearably soft and Ben has to stop himself before he does something irreversible. Closing his own hand on Caleb's, he brings both of them down between their faces, and there they have nowhere to go, so Ben ends up pressing his lips to Caleb's knuckles. Which is hardly less incriminating.

The inside of their tent is very still.

"Ben."

Caleb's voice is a mere whisper.

"Look at me, will ye."

Ben didn't realise he'd closed his eyes, but he can't bring himself to open them. He feels surrounded by Caleb's warmth and can't bear to have it dispelled, even - especially - if it's an illusion. He feels like a rabbit caught beneath a circling bird of prey; if he remains motionless maybe it won't swoop down and sink its claws into his neck.

He feels as much as hears Caleb's sigh when he resists Caleb's attempt to move their joint hands by holding on more tightly. Its cadence of fond exasperation is reflected in his voice, too.

"Stubborn bastard," he says quietly, and kisses the back of Ben's hand.

Ben's eyes fly open, and in Caleb's gaze he finds reflected the same giddy tension, the same nervous fledgling hope that is blooming in his chest. Caleb's eyes crinkle, and Ben wants to see the soft smile he knows is playing along his lips, so this time he lowers their hands and sure enough, there it sits. It is tempered with an unfamiliar, anxious edge, but it tastes just like Ben had always imagined.

Warmth blossoms in his chest even as Caleb's beard tickles his face, drawn out by chapped lips against his. It burns hotter when those lips move, and Ben presses closer in answer only to realise a split second later that they're curving up into a smile. The heat turns to ice in his stomach.

He jerks back, mortified. If he's fallen victim to misapprehension after all, due to his own lack of experience -

"Ben."

He can barely hear Caleb through the rushing in his ears, though he doesn't shake off the hand Caleb wraps around the nape of his neck.

"What?"

Ben has to suppress a wince at the harsh defensiveness clearly audible in his voice. Their constant teasing aside, he doesn't think he could bear Caleb making a joke of this.

"Would you get back here?"

Caleb is still grinning gently. It only serves to get Ben's hackles up further. Caleb's never been cruel, but Ben feels his face heat at the thought of him laughing at Ben for this.

"I don't see what's so funny."

Caleb makes a visible effort to rein in his smile.

"It's not mirth, Bristles, it's joy. What, Yale not teach you the difference?"

"...oh."

Embarrassment suffuses Ben for a different reason. Caleb is definitely laughing at him now, not that Ben can blame him.

"Shut up," he mutters anyway, and ensures Caleb's compliance by leaning in and kissing him again.

He comes in a little too forcefully, and Caleb is still grinning when he does, but then Ben puts his own inexperience out of his mind and captures Caleb's bottom lip with both of his and suddenly, Caleb isn't grinning any more. His hand tightens on Ben's nape, and his tongue tastes the seam where their lips meet. Ben's heart jumps into his throat, pulsing lightning through his very veins. His own hand has found its way back to the front of Caleb's shirt, grip tight - which is what saves Caleb from tumbling off the side of the cot when Ben surges forward to push him on his back. With a yelp, Caleb flings out an arm to brace himself on the tent canvas that of course doesn't offer him support. Ben yanks him back from the edge and he takes a more secure hold of Ben's shoulder.

"Christ, you're menace," he huffs, looking amazingly delighted for someone who almost got pushed off a bed.

"Oh, sure, blame me for almost making such an elegant exit," Ben protests, inching back into what little space he has on his side.

"I'm sorry, out of the two of us, who just nearly shoved me off his bed? Here, you know what - "

Caleb doesn't give him the chance to argue, simply shifting and rearranging them so that he is on his back with Ben lying on top of him.

"There, how's that?" he asks, both hands low on Ben's back. "And without anyone falling off, too."

Ben, currently somewhat distracted by the fact that he is now pressed to Caleb chest to toes, flounders for an answer.

"Well, you could hardly be more uncomfortable than these mattresses."

"Ungrateful shite," Caleb grumbles before kissing Ben again.

***

_And then it’s just too much, the streets, they still run with blood_

_A hundred arms, a hundred years, you can always find me here_

_And lord, don’t let me break this, let me hold it lightly_

_Give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly_

***


End file.
